


suspension of a dream

by orphan_account



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21631798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Fushimi gets more or less what he's always wanted, him and Misaki shut away from the world, just the two of them in their lost small world again.
Relationships: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki
Kudos: 32





	suspension of a dream

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by ideas of a dark!fushimi but playing with his almost psychotic obsessive tendencies with misaki during S1.  
> misaki is probably more or less either more of a passive pawn in this, but saru isn't a very reliable narrator anyway.

He tapping his fingers against the smooth wood in uneven rhythms, and he watches, the honey colored sun illuminating Misaki bustling around in the kitchen, letting him chatter away, the sound of his voice filling the corners of the room, the strands of chestnut red hair curling against the pale nape of his neck, a loose, patterned handkerchief wrapped around his head to keep the flyaways out of his face. Misaki raises the dashi stock from the glinting metal pot in a smooth white ceramic ladle to his lips, his bare cheeks flushed from the simmering fire bubbling away underneath his hands. Outside, the trees wave with the spring wind, and everything is as it should be, the brash sound of bicycles and cars far from their little idyllic apartment, shut away, unreachable, closed to the prying neighbours and suspicious onlookers and the rest of the world, so that no one can ever enter their world, just the two of them. 

The doorbell never rings, and the door is never opened, and Fushimi's hands crinkle the newspaper, a dizzying wave of intoxication as he feels Misaki's touch on his arm, with a pot of tea in the other. 

Fushimi smiles, an exercise in reassurance as he catches Misaki looking at him curiously, but Fushimi remembers, an appropriate reaction, and he pats Misaki's hand gently, reaching out for the tea, and of course he's friendly like he should be - dampening how he really feels, a bubbling, coursing of fervent summer heat. He watches Misaki noisily throw himself onto the tatami mats, refilling Fushimi's cup, his arms, and Fushimi wishes he could feel Misaki's skin through the soft nylon of his shorts, creep up the creamy expanse of skin under his shirt, to caress the layered edge of the warm red hair against his bare shoulders, kiss his little button nose dotted with faint brown freckles and the sweet rosebud pinks of his lips.  
Sometimes Fushimi strays a little too close, but he calmly drinks a little more of the tea on the table, barely tasting the golden bitters of the gyokuro. He looks - he’s polite, and he wasn’t - doesn’t, he never stares, but he only looks carefully when Misaki turns away, so he can fully admire the dips in the curve of his lips, and the flutter of darkened eyelashes, and he wishes that he could take Misaki, to possess him in the quiet of the heat of summer, and the pricking of dry, kikuyu grass, tangled in the strings of his own private, shameless, clumsy passion. 

\--

Fushimi fantasizes. 

Misaki is pinned, a butterfly with its rainbow patterned translucence, a spectacle in its beauty, against the futon against the glint of polished knives. He looks at him through parted lips, soft strands of hair fanned against the cotton pillow. His skin is soft under Fushimi’s human hands, his arms, and Misaki’s wrapped in his embrace, a soft cotton shirt hanging loosely around his chest as Fushimi pries, mapping the areas above his scraped knees. He relishes when he watches Misaki’s warm red eyes glaze over, an indistinct haze of soundless, exquisite delectation.  
He’s tasting, savouring the thin, translucent skin on his ears, down to the sweet, exposed, fragile neck. But he loves him, lips like streams of water, running down the dips of Misaki’s chest, trickling between his thighs, and he is showing Misaki in the way he knows he can, biting into his skin until pretty blood red roses trickle onto the canvas of his bared clavicles and bloodied thorns marr his neck, sharp hands ghosting over the softness of his hips, and he's nauseous with longing, to hear Misaki's breathless prayer of reverence into the night of blotted stars and an dying moon. 

\-- 

He asks Misaki to stay this time. He knows he’ll say yes, because he can’t say no anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> any hint of a plot remains evasive.  
> prose heavily inspired by nabakov.


End file.
